Review

The venerable Summerjam Festival turned 26, with a very open line-up that broke with previous years. There is plenty of fun to be had at Summerjam, but the music often takes second place. An account of three days of concerts and camping.   Reactions (0)    DAY 1 Pitching tents, pitching a line-up Summerjam is something enormous, out of all proportion. What strikes you straight away? The immensity of the site; half a day would not be enough to walk around it. All around a circular lake, the tents pile up, cling to the slopes and end up forming a veritable sea. The campsite is a spectacle in itself. Word has it, incidentally, that some people come only for that and never cross the bridge that links the land to the festival island in the middle of the lake. The Germans arrive on Thursday morning and set up veritable villages: tarpaulins, cool boxes, barbecues, tables, sofas. Legendary organisational skills. There are the regulars and there are the others, those who arrive later. Those who, exhausted, end up settling on the first patch of nettles they find, right opposite the toilets. They are the European backpackers, holders of youth rail cards, Interrail passes and low-cost airline tickets. They come from all over, a lot of them from France. They are of all ages, and they all have something red, gold and green about them... even if they are not necessarily big reggae fans. With one eye on the programme and one eye on the crowd, you understand that Summerjam casts its net wide. Roots purists should pass by; this is not really about music, it is about partying and carefree fun. On the menu this Friday: Dub A la pub, Ziggi Recado, Sara Lugo, Iriepatie... Relatively harmless and above all ideal for getting arms in the air and preparing for the arrival of one of the evening's many star acts: Dub Inc. The French band play at 8.50pm, just before Patrice. Like the previous acts, they are not short of fun when it comes to having a good time. Come on, rudeboys, hands in the air, everybody! The Red stage faces a bouncing, delighted sea of humanity. The European side of reggae is therefore the dominant side at Summerjam. It has to be admitted that the success of the pop-leaning bands is such that at 5pm, while waiting for John Holt, you wonder how the crowd will receive a calmer, more old-school sound... Unfortunately the clash of the reggaes does not finally happen so violently: at 5.40pm, the audience is asked to call Iriepathie back for the fourth time... We end up understanding that Holt is not coming. Disappointment. To help us pick ourselves up: Andrew Tosh, one of the day's satisfactions. His voice carries, and his instrumentalists are up to the task. The music gains in intensity on some fiery saxophone solos. On the green stage the crowd salutes the performance. Patrice's triumph is also worth noting: thunderous encores after a very crossover set, marked notably by his vocal prowess. One last reason to rejoice: Cecile. The Jamaican, a regular at the venue, grabs attention and contrasts with the previous acts. The audience clings on, then catches fire. Promising when you know that later, around midnight, at the end of the concerts, a good part of the crowd migrates from the children's island to the "Dancehall Arena" to shake it until the end of the night. Be careful, though, not to throw all your strength into the battle on the first day: tomorrow, Saturday, South American sounds are scheduled early in the day while in the evening, Alpha Blondy will follow Anthony B on the red stage.   DAY 2 A sea of rubbish, cumbia and Blondy 8am at the campsite: the first up go for a shower and cross paths with those who have not been to bed. First coffees against last beers. The festival began only 24 hours ago and it has to be said that behaviour is rarely I-tal. Abandoned bins, ripped-open tents... Too many people, responsibility dilutes far faster than the plastic floating on the lake. Another nasty surprise: the neighbour had his bag nicked during the night. Nothing important in it, just one more unconstructive theft... Let's at least hope the thief takes a size 43. The police? It is far easier for them to pad out their anti-drug statistics by searching a few smokers than to solve an obscure case of stolen boxer shorts. Police everywhere, justice nowhere: that is precisely the message of most of the invited artists. On the green stage, Che Sudaka, followed by Karamelo Santo, give the festival a Latino touch. Colombians, Argentinians and Spaniards singing Alegria y Amor: it is bound to be a little euphoric. The crowd throws its arms in the air and two fifty-somethings sway to the characteristic "chi chi chi" of cumbia. Will the South Americans get the festival off the ground? The day is off to a good start, and the sun finally makes an appearance over Cologne after two days of grey. The music is luminous until a brief shower dampens the enthusiasm of part of the crowd: did Karamelo Santo really need to end their set with the Macarena? A lapse of taste. Musically more solid, Atmosphere appear around 5pm. Jazzy instrumental hip-hop, controlled and melodic flow. Admittedly it is not reggae, but sometimes a good hip-hop MC is better than the stupefying boom-boom and the doctored voices of the artists who follow one another all afternoon on the other stage, the Red Stage. Illbilly Hitec, I-Fire, Samy Deluxe, Mono and Nikitaman are German acts with two things in common: overpowering bass that masks the musical poverty, and guttural voices that give the impression of yelling at the audience... German speakers seem to love it. For the rest of us, it might have been better to wait until 8pm and come straight for Anthony B. When he arrives, the crowd is already very dense. At the first notes, the drifters sprawled on the grass get to their feet. They enjoy an opening tribute to Marley senior, then let themselves be carried along by the white-turbaned deejay's hits. Behind him, the bass/drums pairing show diabolical precision. The audience keeps pouring in, flags flutter in the wind while the lawn goes back to dust... Not a minute more or a minute less: the programme runs like clockwork. 9.35pm, at last it is time for reggae. "Salaam," Alpha Blondy tells the audience. A long monologue, a palaver: the Ivorian explains that he is walking through the valley of death. A cappella, he starts his magnificent JerusalemCourse au pouvoir, Cocody Rock, so many tracks punctuated by intense guitar solos and soaring saxophone. The audience rejoices and roars on the closing Brigadier Sabari. We miss Jimmy Cliff, but the Jamaican is doing the grand tour of the festivals this year: we will have the chance to see him again. A stop at the tent before losing ourselves in the Dancehall Arena. An immense, overheated hall, criss-crossed in all directions by powerful lasers, the place hosts the diehards of sound all night long. Pow Pow and Sentinel are playing at home. Their sound is grimy, with a roughness perfectly suited to this boozy menagerie. Repeated pull-ups, raspy voices: the selectas work the crowd just like in the sounds of Kingston. Dancehall, Sean Paul, Major Lazer, "come on move it move it". Time ticks on. Tomorrow, though, we will need to be up by 4pm. It would be a shame to miss the Congos, Perry and Max Romeo...   DAY 3 Sunday, high and mighty "Summerjaaaaaaaam" and a big SPLASH: that is what probably woke a good part of the campsite around 1pm. As every year, some lunatics have thrown themselves off the bridge that links the campsite to the island of songs. A good yell, a few metres of free fall and some nice cold water can't do anyone any harm, given how drawn the faces are on this third day of Pilsner and smoking. Some pack up, others grill a few merguez; nobody seems in much of a hurry to cross the bridge. In the distance, we hear Heckert Empire, half reggae, half Irish song, with a voice passed through a thousand filters. We can guess that on the other side of the water, the conga line is under way. Avoiding the clusters of fluorescent youngsters and the Rihanna covers, the aim on this last day is to slip through to the green stage for the festival's only real roots concert. After a while waiting by the lake or in the chill-out zone, the excitement mounts. When the Congos walk on stage, a dense crowd is already letting out the first hurrahs. Nobody is there by chance. Smiles from the audience, affable smiles from the artists. After decades of career, the vocal trio retain the same humility and the same freshness. It is hard to match their stage presence and above all to come close to their sound, as deep as ever, to find an equivalent to Cedric Myton's voice, high-pitched and unalterable. Congo Man, and all the classics from "Heart of the Congos" get an airing: so many majestic tracks on which the sexagenarians and the sound engineer have fun, making room for soloists, vocal improvisations and dub variations. In the crowd, a hand brandishes a pistol and fires joyfully into the air. It is only water. After Fisherman, the Congos disappear but the musicians stay in place. So does the audience, kept supplied with drink by waiters who cross the crowd with a beer tank on their backs. Max Romeo takes possession of the stage. After a slightly static start to his set, he ends up winning people over on One Step Forward and above all on one of his hits, saved for the finale, Chase the Devil. The musicians stay in place yet again and part of the crowd wonders: who is this lunatic with red hair, dressed all in black, booted, covered in decorations and gilding, with a mirror hanging round his neck? An old Darth Vader who has been through an antique shop, the little spluttering man has something fascinating, magnetic about him. When he starts Sun Is Shining, repeating obstinately "I am Bob Marley", nobody really takes him seriously. Yet gradually the music wins over the crowd and even the back rows start to dance, surprised and delighted by finely chiselled riddims and by the half-sung, half-spoken interventions of the character, inna rub a dub style. Lee Perry is definitely on another planet, and without music would no doubt have ended up committed. The high point of the day: the glories of roots reggae find themselves on stage together for a farewell War inna Babylon. About ten minutes of pure bliss, between Perry's antics and the Congos' vocal harmonies, instrumental passages, dub. Max Romeo, whose song it is, nonetheless struggles to get a word in. The end of the day is marked by Ayo's performance, which half the male audience must have fallen in love with, so intense were the cheers. Finally, Summerjam closes with Youssou N'dour, not really reggae but so intense. Thirteen musicians, an impressive line-up from which a dense, teeming, punchy music emerges. The instruments answer one another, the percussion runs away with itself and the Senegalese's voice lands with precision. Everyone has their freedom and everyone stays perfectly in their place. The musical performance is matched by a veritable show. Contortionists, dancers: the spectacle is total. The sun finally sets on the island of songs. On what is left of the grass, children do somersaults, and the teenagers finish rolling up.. The souvenir shop can close at last; the market is saturated, everyone has bought their red, gold and green trousers and the regulation T-shirt. Time to set off the fireworks. Report written by Charly Andral Photos : Reggaeville.com   Reactions (0)

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